


Colours

by Shirazkindofgirl



Category: Holby City
Genre: Angst, Colours, F/F, Ficlet Collection, I Don't Even Know, Kiev, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-04-13
Packaged: 2019-04-08 01:13:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14093769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shirazkindofgirl/pseuds/Shirazkindofgirl
Summary: A series of ficlets, each with a colour theme.





	1. Colours

**Author's Note:**

> So, I haven't written anything in over six years. I'm trying to stretch my fic writing wings. These ficlets will vary in length and I can't say how often I'll update them. Shout out to The Mashers (TM) you ladies have inspired me to try writing again.

Her eyes scanned the darkness. The black of night seemed to close in around her, broken only by the orange glow from the tip of her cigarette.

In the pocket of her pink coat, silver foil wrapped around rich brown, the last of a hastily, half-eaten lunch time chocolate bar.

Purple satin; she smiled at the memory of the night before. Images of Serena’s underwear dangling from the tips of her fingers, crossed her mind. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Stretching slightly, she revelled in her aching muscles and bruises she knew dotted both hers and Serena’s skin.

A door opened, bright yellow light flooding outwards. Bernie opened her eyes and turned her head, catching the glint of gold shining from Serena’s necklace. The door closed, plunging her back into shadows. Serena appeared at her side.

“There’s a glass of Shiraz at Albie’s with my name on. C’mon Ms Wolfe, what are you waiting for?” Grabbing Bernie’s hand, Serena led them towards the inviting warmth of the pub.


	2. Orange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bernie has a confession to make. Little does she know that Serena has been keeping secrets too.

Sunday morning breakfast had become a bit of a ritual in the Campbell-Wolfe household. It was the one day of the week when neither Serena nor Bernie had to rush anywhere. Now that Jason had moved out, mealtimes were less structured. However, the one thing that remained the same was the traditional Sunday full English fry up. Serena took great delight in preparing each item; fried eggs, bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes, baked beans and toast were all added to the plate. Bernie made the coffee and poured fruit juice, bringing the items to the table as Serena placed the plates and cutlery down. Seats were taken, and Serena dug into her breakfast with gusto.

Bernie listlessly pushed her breakfast around her plate.

“Something wrong?” Serena asked.

“No.” Bernie poked at a piece of bacon, moving it away from the congealing orange mass which seemed to be taking over her plate this morning.

“You’re not eating your breakfast.” Serena looked up from devouring her eggs.

Bernie made a point of spearing a mushroom and moving her fork towards her mouth. “I’m eating.”

Serena put down her knife and fork and stretched her arm across the table towards Bernie.

“What’s up? … And don’t say the sky.”

Bernie opened her mouth to reply, but Serena continued before she could deny that anything was wrong. 

“I know something’s not right, Bernie. You know you can always talk to me.”

Looking down at her plate, Bernie mumbled a response.

“I’m sorry, you’re going to have to repeat that.”

Bernie took a deep breath. “You know I love you, don’t you?”

“Darling, you’re starting to worry me now.” Serena looked at her wife, a dismal expression crossed her features.

Bernie reached out and squeezed Serena’s hand. “I love you so much, Serena ….. but I can’t stand baked beans.”

Serena pulled her hand back sharply. “You don’t like them?”

Bernie shook her head. “I hate the gloopy, orange, foul smelling things. I didn’t have much choice about eating them during my Army days. After I left, I vowed I’d never touch another one. I’ve only been eating them every Sunday because I didn’t want to offend you.”

Serena stared at her for a few seconds and then began to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Bernie asked, slightly concerned by her wife’s reaction.

Momentarily, Serena had calmed down enough to respond.

“You’ve been eating baked beans just to please me?”

Bernie peeked up at Serena from under her fringe. “Yes.” She replied, timidly.

“Oh Bernie, you’re such a lovable idiot! You know what’s so funny about all of this? I can’t stand the things!” Serena giggled again.

“You ….. what?” Bernie looked perplexed.

“I’ve been eating them because I thought you liked them. I didn’t want to offend you either!” Serena picked up her knife and fork. “Come on, eat the rest of your breakfast before it gets cold and next week we can ditch the beans and have something else. How do you feel about black pudding?” 

“Um.” Was Bernie’s only response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the bean-hating Mashers, you know who you are!


	3. Brown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bernie is in Kiev, trying not to think about Serena.

Bernie paid an extortionate amount of money for the imported Whisky, it’s better than the cheap gut rot Vodka the corner store stocks. She never liked the taste of Vodka, it reminded her of Marcus. Vodka was his favourite tipple and Bernie had vowed never to touch the stuff after her divorce. Her new Ukrainian colleagues had tried to tempt her with potato Vodka, she had politely refused. She didn’t need reminders of her ex-husband. Whisky was her drink of choice during those dark, cold Kiev nights. Red wine reminded her too much of Serena.

Serena. During those gloomy, lonely nights Bernie’s only escape was flicking through the photos on her phone. Pictures of the two of them together, but there was nothing Bernie could do, her choice had been made. Self-imposed exile was her punishment and her salvation.

Bernie looked at the clock. It was long past time when she should have been asleep. Her shift started early in the morning. Her phone in one hand and her tumbler of Whisky in the other, it was hard to put either one down. Serena’s face was a ghost in Bernie’s mind. She downed the Whisky and refilled her glass. Perhaps drowning her memories was the answer tonight.

The whisky helped to keep Serena from Bernie’s thoughts for a week or two. Then Serena’s e-mail arrived and everything Bernie had done to erase Serena from her mind came flooding back. The smell of Serena’s perfume, a stark reminder of what Bernie was missing. The taste of the kiss they had shared in their office, Serena’s arms around her. Serena’s smile and Bernie’s own response, “I’ve been wanting to do that for weeks.” Now that she’d had a sample, Bernie wanted more.

Finishing her shift at the hospital, Bernie trudged through the snow-laden streets of Kiev, another lonely night stretched out before her. Bernie knew she was smoking and drinking far more than was healthy. She cracked the window in her flat, the frigid air seeped in through the gap, the smoke dissipated. It was too late to give up now, the cigarette was in her hand. Taking a final drag, she dropped the smoking remnants into her ashtray and poured herself another drink. This night seemed like a good night to try to drown the memories of Serena in another bottle of Whisky.

Bernie vowed to herself that she wouldn’t stop drinking tonight until she couldn’t see Serena’s face in her memories. Finally succumbing to unconsciousness on her cold and lonely bed, Bernie didn’t see her phone light up with a text.

Serena Campbell: “I MISS YOU”.


End file.
